


Things Unsaid

by EuphoricSound



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:19:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EuphoricSound/pseuds/EuphoricSound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Manhattan, Natasha tries to reconnect with a battered Clint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> I had been doing a lot of writing exercises when I wrote this, and wanted to explore Clint and Natasha's nonverbal communication. It started as a drabble and then...exploded. 
> 
> Thanks to mindsofiron for her input!

They were all together, after the battle. Eating. She hardly paid attention to the what (although, if she was honest, she would rather not know what shawarma was). Vaguely, she was aware of being surrounded by…what, her team? Natasha Romanoff wasn’t part of a team. She was a partner, perhaps, but not a team member. But there they were, all around her, these gods and magicians, individuals she had thrown her lot in with for the good of the mission. She felt a hitch in her thoughts as she considered this. Had it been the good of the mission, after all? Yes. She had done her job - a job she was incredibly, deadly good at. But she was a spy, not a soldier. It had been pointed out to her once already today, and now that the bloodshed was done, as ever, her thoughts were invaded by doubt, relentlessly causing her to question her own motivations. She collected information. She knew a hundred, a thousand nuanced ways to collect, extract, and deliver information. It was her art. Open war, war fought in the daylight, out of the protection of the shadows and the night, was not. No, this war was one she fought because she had been backed into a corner, compromised. She looked down to her right at the heavily booted foot that perched on the outer edge of her chair. To an outside observer, it might look like a proprietary gesture, the way her longtime partner had slung his foot up to her seat. She knew it to be a gentle reminder that he was there. That he wasn’t gone, that his mind was still his own, and that he was still with her. They didn’t often have the kinds of conversations that normal partners did. These small, nonverbal moments said more than words she could formulate. Conscious of the others still quietly eating and of her own growing exhaustion, she sank into the almost tangible nearness created by that gesture, and it was enough, almost, to rid her of the dread that had wormed it’s way into her heart over the past several days.

Once, she stole a look at his face. She saw exhaustion there, to match her own and more. And that’s probably what the others saw as well. But she knew him like she knew the lines in her own palm, and she saw other things playing across his features. Fury, fear, isolation, remorse, all haunting at the edges of him. She looked down, gently shifting in her seat, hip bumping against his foot. When she looked up at him again, Clint’s gaze was locked on her in that watchful way that was so unique to him. She met his stare evenly as his eyes quested over her expression. It was a habit of his, trying to read her. He was watching her from a distance, silently gaining a knowing of her that she had never allowed of anyone else. Today, she was too tired to keep anything back from him. She had so nearly lost him, and here he was, a foot from her and still half unmade, and she knew with a sudden ferocity that there wasn’t a lot she wouldn’t do to hold the pieces of him together. Enough of this must have flickered across her face, because his jaw suddenly clenched as he looked down and away.

And then they were done with their meal, and they had paid their bill, and they were stumbling, limping for the exit, for the transport that awaited them. And then they were being airlifted back to the helicarrier, which, though grounded for repairs, was still the most secure location to rest and recover. They parted wordlessly, filing off to their quarters.

Her own Spartan accommodations suited her well. She showered, stretched the worst of the soreness from her arms and legs, and sat on the edge of her bed, utterly exhausted, and utterly unable to lie down. She let out a frustrated growl and rose, abandoning her quarters and making her way down the hall. She paused for a moment outside of Clint’s door, took a breath in, and knocked softly. After a similar hesitation on the other side, the door slid open, and he stood in front of her, trepidation etched into the lines of his face.

“Nat…You shouldn’t be here.”

She was silent and unmoving at his door.

“This is something I need to deal with.”

“I know.”

She didn’t shoulder past him, didn’t advance at all, in fact. She waited to be invited into his space, and was suddenly reminded of the hundred times he had waited to be invited into her own space, in one way or another. He had been the reason she had defected to the United States from Russia, those years ago. She had come back here with him because…there had not been another option at the time. He had offered her a new start, and she had had nothing to return to. She had not expected him to remain a constant, vigilant shadow during her deprogramming. Had not expected him to gently help her acclimate to this new way of life, to be a buffer between her and the rest of the S.H.I.E.L.D. organization. For them, she could perform the function that she was highly attuned to perform. But she was not one of them, not quite, and never would be. In Barton, she had found a kindred spirit of sorts. He was an outsider among them, a rogue. S.H.I.E.L.D. was a convenience that employed their unique skills in a marginally better way that others would. He never sought to sell her on the patriotic bullshit. Quite to the contrary, Barton had consistently asserted, in that quiet way of his, that she stay true to herself. That she build a life that she wanted. That she was best when she was true. Natasha still puzzled over what that meant from time to time, but she knew that one thing had kept her here in those early days, and it had been him. All that time, he had been cautious with her, and thus was she cautious now.

He backed up after a moment, gaze still watchful, expression almost hesitant, and closed the door behind her as she made her way into the room. She leaned against the wall as he made his way around his quarters, watching her out of the corner of his eye as he straightened, stretched a bit, and then finally crawled into his bunk. It was then, finally, that she moved, following him into the bed, waiting for him to get comfortable, then pressing herself against him, tangling her legs with his, tucking her head under his chin. It was a long time before she felt him relax against her, and she knew that fatigue was beginning to win out over the archer.

This was a familiar space for them; tucked together in the stillness. It had become a habit several years ago. At first only after the hardest missions, when their mutual understanding, when that part of the one that overlapped with the other so easily was the only comfort at the end of hard day. Gradually, they had begun to share quarters whenever they were in the same location. And then it had become more than sleeping. What they had, she could not quite define. It had so many twists and turns, so many complications, that she couldn’t begin to try. The only simplicity came in the fact that neither of them tried. They were what they were. And then Loki came, and he had changed all of that. The comfortable balance between them was shifting. She could not forget or ignore the terror that had come along with the thought of losing him. She knew that he was in anguish over compromising her to the enemy and over his own attempts to harm her under Loki’s influence. The space between them was different now, shifting by the moment, redefining itself. She pressed closer to him as he buried his face in her hair, his arms tightening around her.

It took a long time for him to speak. “I can’t be sure he’s gone. I’m not sure how I can be sure. I-” But she didn’t let him finish. Instead, she pressed her mouth to his, kissing him insistently until she was fairly sure he couldn’t remember what he had been about to say.

“Tomorrow.” She said softly, reaching up to trace her thumb along his jaw.

He nodded, regarding her with an expression she couldn’t quite discern, and slowly closed his eyes. She waited until the furrows in his brow had softened and his breathing had steadied to relax, and very suddenly an aching relief flooded in, causing her chest to contract. The coiled fear that had worked its way into her blood from the moment she had received the call from Coulson began to drain away. She took a long, unsteady breath as she struggled to master the torrent of emotion. Compromised, indeed. She allowed her eyes to close.

“We’re both still here.” She muttered.

“I know.” He said after a moment. Sleep came quickly after that.

The next morning was filled with debriefings, follow-up appointments at medical, and bureaucratic tedium. Being debriefed by Maria Hill was a sharp reminder of Coulson’s absence, and Natasha could see guilt behind Clint’s blue-gray gaze as he answered Hill’s questions. They had been placed on a two-week mandatory leave, after which they would be reassessed for field duty. Clint was not to leave the Helicarrier, unfortunately. His “leave” would be peppered psychological evaluations, tests, and observation to confirm that his mind was really once again his own. When they were finally released, there was a stiffness in his gate that she attributed to more than just the previous day’s combat.

“Feel like hitting the gym.”

He looked at her as though she had ten heads, blue hair, and fire coming out of her nostrils.

“Are fucking kidding me?”

She snorted. “Oh, come on. It’ll do you good to stretch it out. Hair of the dog.” She said with a smirk. She knew that “hair of the dog” was usually used to describe alcohol as a cure for a bad hangover. When she had first defected, her improper use of a few colloquialisms had become something of a joke between them.

Clint’s incredulous expression turned humorous as a corner of his mouth actually tugged upwards.

“That’s not what “hair of the dog” means, Tash.”

She shrugged. “Close enough.”

He shook his head. “I’m pretty sure you aren’t human.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m gonna kick your human fucking ass, Barton.”

The promise of competition lit something behind his eyes, and they made their way to the gym, which was unsurprisingly deserted. They were slow at first as their bodies screamed out the abuses of the last few days. But as their muscles warmed, they fell into a familiar pattern of blocks and jabs, kicks and evasions worthy of their backgrounds in acrobatics and dance, respectively.

Then she began to push him. Slowly at first, letting a punch land very gently where she might have pulled it before, evading a swipe and maneuvering into a position that would have given her a deadly advantage in a real combat situation. She had always had a respectable advantage over him at hand-to-hand combat, and his frustration towards the end of a sparring session was always endearing. Today though, she pushed him to see how far she could push him, and what the result would be. If he needed to see that he was alone in his brain, she was in a unique position to expose all the nerves that might trigger him. It made her heart clench painfully, but he had to know. They both had to know.

She pinned his arm behind him, and he lurched forward, spinning around and grabbing her arm, trying to reverse the lock. She used his momentum to lift her legs from the ground, swinging them through the air and pinning his shoulders between her legs, whipping them forward and flipping them both to the ground. They remained on the ground for a moment, panting, and Natasha was just beginning to formulate a snide remark concerning Clint’s inability to ever expect that tired move when he rose, prowled around her, and waited for her to rise.

“What, you done? Thought you were gonna kick my fucking ass, Red.”

With a smoldering smile, she rose, and they began again. And again she beat him soundly. And again he rose. This last time, he managed to slip his boot behind her knee, crooking it forward and throwing her off balance, finally allowing him to pin her. Hands firmly on her shoulders, he grinned wolfishly down at her.

“Well, once out of three isn’t bad, I guess. Particularly when I’m already exhausted.” She gasped through a small laugh.

“Excuses.” He snickered back, then laughed, breathlessly, genuinely. Pressing his face into shoulder, he let out one final laugh that might have also been a small sob, and she brought her hand up to the back of his neck. He rolled over onto his back next to her, and they waited for their hearts to slow before moving.

“Oh, God, Romanoff. You smell terrible.” He said as he lifted himself up off the ground.

“Mmm, and you’re a bouquet of roses!” She snickered as she accepted a hand up. She could see in the way he moved that she’d fought him back to the edge of his endurance. And he was still himself. Eyes still blue and gray, with none of the sickly cerulean that had clouded his gaze just yesterday.

They showered in his quarters, and he gave her a pair of his drawstring pants and a T-shirt to wear. She sat on the edge of his bed, kneading at her quadriceps and then trying in vain to loose the knots just to the inside of her shoulder blades. She felt him settle himself behind her, swatting at her hands with an impatient exhalation, and nearly lost consciousness when his clever archer’s hands pressed into her rapidly tightening muscles. He took his time on her back, methodically locating and dispersing each area of tension, and she was practically sleeping by the time he finished, slowly lying down and pulling her down in front of him, her back tucked against his chest, wrapping his arms around her.

”Should get you too…” She muttered sleepily. She felt him nodding his head against the back of her neck as he curled his body closer into hers, settling his arms more firmly about her. But then his breathing deepened, and he slept. And then she slept. And they slept for a very long time.

When she finally stirred fully awake, she found Clint sitting at the low desk by the window, staring out. She narrowed her eyes. “Something fascinating going on out on deck?”

He shrugged. “Just thinking. Watching.”

She breathed out a slow sigh and initiated the conversation she’d been putting off. “No, you aren’t. I’ve watched you “watching” and what you are doing now it brooding. I’m not going to let you start to feeling sorry for yourself.”

He turned that sharp gaze on her, narrowing in on her expression, her body language. Trying to read her. She kept her body relaxed, propping her head up on one hand and stretching out on the bed.

”Are you serious?” And there was anger flaring behind his eyes. Good. “Are you? Because I remember every thought, every moment. Excuse me if my “brooding” is bothering you, but I’ve had a seriously bad fucking week.” He growled.

”Mmmh, and it’s over, and there will be more bad weeks, Clint. It’s what we do.” She chuckled, her voice even huskier than usual from sleep. “We are professionally amazing at having bad weeks.”

He looked at her, and she thought she saw a smile ghost over his features. He had said something very similar to her, near the beginning of their partnership, when the roles had been reversed and she had been shaking off the programming, he her constant, patient shadow.

He was silent for a moment, and took a breath. “It wasn’t just that he give orders and I followed them, Tasha. He made me want to follow them. I was me, but I was someone else. I had someone else’s motivations…but I felt them as mine. I felt what he was doing was right. Even when I told him every detail of our operation here. About everyone. About you. All those agents…And then when you fought me, I was going to-” He stopped there, dragging his hand over his face, then turned to look out the window again, jaw clenched. “And I have no idea how to know that it’s not coming back.”

And there it was. She watched as he rolled his shoulders, a small gesture to rid his body of some of the sudden tension. “You didn’t kill those agents, Clint. You didn’t betray Fury, you didn’t kill Coulson.” And here she took a breath. “And you didn’t compromise me, and you weren’t going to kill me. I know it feels like you did, but it wasn’t you.”

He turned his gaze back on her, an argument rising, but she cut him off. “Stop it. Think back, and blame me personally for any one of the people I killed before you brought me in.” Her voice was low and even when she leveled that challenge at him.

Clint rose from the chair. “That isn’t fair. You know I don’t blame you. You know that, and this is different.”

”Go right ahead and tell me how. We have tons of time. Two weeks, in fact. At least.” She said as she sat up on the bed, watched as he paced away from her, then back, a dozen responses lifting to his lips but never quite making it into the air. His anger was still rising, and he narrowed his eyes as he leveled a cold expression at her.

“What is it that you fucking want, Romanoff? To see me like this? To watch me trying to keep it together? I’m not going to be just fucking…better because you want me to be.” He growled.

“That’s not what I want.” She replied softly. “I just…someone should be here for you.”

“Oh yeah? And that’s gonna be you?” He said sarcastically.

She rose from the bed in one seething motion. “I just went to _war_ for you, Barton.” She snarled.

Natasha’s breath caught in the back of her throat as she realized what she’d said.

Clint looked as though she’d just knocked the wind out of him. He stood there, staring at her. And then he crossed the small space between them, hovering in front of her for a moment, a multitude of emotions flickering through his eyes. He lifted his hands to her face, and then he dropped them, lowering his body to sit heavily on the bed. When she moved to stand in front of him, he leaned his forehead into her stomach.

”Fuck.” He muttered. “Fuck, Tasha.”

”I know.” She answered, running a hand through his short hair.

He took a heavy breath. “What if it does come back then? If I…turn again.”

”You won’t, Clint. It’s over.” And she knew she said it because she needed it to be over as much as he did. “But you know…if you’re worried, know I will be most happy to hit you in the head again.” She said with a small smile in her voice.

He laughed then, and there was a little less sadness in the sound than there had been yesterday. She smiled in response. He brought his hands up to her hips. “I do believe you’re serious. And I don’t know what it says about me that it’s actually a comfort.”

She chuckled, but then felt her features grow still and serious as she met his eyes. “I still trust you, Clint.” The words came out quiet, and she couldn’t quite help feeling that there was more she wanted to say, but her heart was already slamming into her ribs.

Natasha’s stomach flipped over as he pressed a kiss to her navel, then pulled her into his lap, her legs straddling his waist. He looked up at her and his eyes, still soft blue, were his, and he was looking at her in that way of his that made all her common sense short out. She realized suddenly that there was one thing between them that hadn’t changed at all. Had perhaps been there for a long time in the way he looked at her and in the way she let him know her. The world was changing, and they might be rogues and vagrants, but somehow they had built a home in one another. And she found herself returning the expression he wore, and knew he read it true on her face. Unspoken, for the moment, but there all the same.

She leaned down to kiss him again, brushing her tongue against his lips, which parted to her as his arms tightened around her back. And then they were rushing closer, their kisses growing hungrier. They clung together with something like desperation, hands everywhere, scrambling for purchase but never quite finding a way to be still. He maneuvered their bodies around and she was pinned beneath him, and then they were shedding their clothes, and then they were wrapped around each other, and it was different but it was more, and then they were falling off the edge and though everything on the outside was shifting around them, none of it really mattered at all.


End file.
